The man’s shadow grew more substantial with the sound of his footsteps as he approached the women. He wore a red flannel shirt, the sleeves of which had been cut out, exposing a pair of protruding biceps in a black motorcycle vest. On his bottom half, a pair of ripped jeans covered his long muscular thighs, black combat boots laced up to his calves. While Harley could spot no tattoos, she assumed there were at least a few beneath his clothes. By her estimation, he was probably somewhere in his early thirties.
She could make fewer assessments about his face. A baseball hat covered his dark wavy hair, tied loosely in a ponytail down his back. A matching beard obscured most of his face, but beneath it, she detected high cheekbones and a prominent jawline.
The man’s dark-blue eyes seemed to take in the scene before him with amusement: the two furious women, the redneck girl, the unapologetic pig, and the trail of dirt and petals littering the sidewalk. A slight smile crossed his bearded face, then quickly disappeared.
“This shop open?” he said, motioning to Smoky Mountain Spirits in the foreground. His voice spoke of late nights, whiskey, and cigars.
With quiet reverence, Alveda Hamilton stared up at him, her mouth agape. Even Ruby appeared startled. Confused by their reactions but thankful for the interruption, Harley nodded that the shop was indeed open.
He marched in that direction, leaving a fawning Ruby and Alveda in his wake. Alveda Hamilton scuttled along behind him like a chicken, balancing her purse on her elbow. “And I hope you’ll come to Pioneer Days this week,” she said. “Your presence would mean so much to the community.”
But he’d already disappeared inside the shop, the bells clanging behind him.
All decorum fell from Alveda’s face, her former coquettishness replaced with bile. “As soon as he leaves,” she said, pointing toward the shop, “and not a second after, I want this mess cleaned up, and I want those flowers replaced. And if I ever see that awful pig near my flowers again, I’m calling Animal Control.”
Ruby Montgomery, who typically treated Harley with cold civility, approached and in a stern voice said, “Clean up the debris and replace the flowers by noon today or you’ll be fined and your business banned from the festival.”
Repentant, Harley nodded and led Matilda inside the shop. With the door closed and the incident behind her, she exhaled in relief and rested her back to the door.
The man stood in the back right-hand corner of the store, perusing the whiskey collection. Before Harley headed his way, she led Matilda over to the potbellied stove and tied her leash to one of the load-bearing pillars, assuming the pig couldn’t possibly bring the pillar and the entire store to the ground. Harley patted Matilda on the head, then caressed her silken ears, an effort to comfort them both, it seemed. It had been a terrible day. As soon as the man left, she would close the shop temporarily, take Matilda to the vet, then back to the farm.
From a distance, Harley watched the man as he studied the whiskey bottles in quiet thought.